For Abyssals, the Ink Sea is pasture—where they graze power and refill supplies. Basic common sense says you never strip a pasture down to bare dirt.
But this stretch felt close to being eaten to the root. Even the black water was paling toward blue.
"Current total, just over five million," said Abyssal Musashi with a nod. "Since you're here, we start now."
She might be the Red-Haired One's designated overall flagship, but even two N-class flagships had come only to play second fiddle—and in truth, neither outclassed Musashi.
The two N-class simply nodded and yawned. "Five million's enough to roll a nation. We'll screen for you. Don't call us unless it's critical—what a hassle."
The most striking thing about the N-class wasn't the floating halos over their heads, nor the dragon-prowed mounts they reclined on, nor the tiny strike craft fluttering around them.
It was their personality: dead-fish eyes, boneless sprawl, never stand if you can lie down.
People said these "tuned products" came with that standard attitude. As something closer to a manufactured item than a thinking being, an N-class seemed born tired of living.
Even Hindenburg had heard the rumors; she hadn't expected it to be this blatant. She gave them an extra glance, then—prodded by Musashi—surged south at the head of the host.
The main body had already shifted during the night and was now barely five hundred nautical miles from Hikaru's base.
More than three million Abyssals gathered under the banner and flowed south like a migrating cloud—ten thousand arrows in flight, ten thousand horses in a charge.
War was a breath away.
"Enemy main force breaking camp to the south—storm belt translating south at speed!"
The picket scout shouted the report.
Iowa, spearheading the relief column, stiffened. They were pushing so fast they were nearly at transonic; she had to pull off her cap and clamp it in one hand.
Even so, as she ran in a full-tilt surge, the icy wind stretched her cape dead straight like an arrow shaft.
Marshal Hanza drew breath from the diaphragm and boomed like thunder, "Estimate time to Abyssal contact with Commander Hikaru's base?"
He had to bellow; the mere slipstream of their dash roared loud enough to swallow ordinary voices.
The runner yelled back, "At present rates: Abyssal vanguard will engage in two to three hours. Main force will complete encirclement in roughly five hours!"
Iowa ran the math in her head and arched a brow.
"We're too slow. By the time we arrive, they'll have fought one to two hours—the battle might already be decided."
Five million Abyssals against one base—never mind an hour or two. Surviving the first strike would be a miracle.
That was how everyone in the relief column saw it. They weren't pretending they were a weight on the scale to defeat the Abyssal host—don't kid yourself.
Their self-assigned roles were either: get there before the Abyssals and escort Hikaru out—call it an evacuation—
—or retrieve the bodies.
The mood was grim. No one truly believed they could shepherd Hikaru's people out through five million enemies.
A bearded magi-corrupted hauling an autocannon muttered, "What 'decided mid-fight'? Wasn't the result decided before it started?"
His voice wasn't loud; the gale shredded it. But Iowa, like she had ears in the air, snapped her head around and snarled, "If you don't like it, turn around and go home. No one's counting you a deserter."
With everyone watching, the big man flushed, then swallowed it. Iowa's sheer presence pressed him flat.
Truth was, these were men who'd put life and death aside, a suicide-charge unit in all but name. He'd only griped offhand—and this shipgirl was that unforgiving?
Old soldiers know: in battle, you loosen the leash; for a forlorn-hope detachment, you barely bother with discipline. These shipgirls… had a screw loose.
[End of Chapter]
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